


Unlocked

by Pmzilla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Drug Use, Eventual Relationships, F/M, First Time, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Sherlock Using Drugs, Physical Abuse, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pmzilla/pseuds/Pmzilla
Summary: Mycroft meets American math professor - and mystery soon follows. Sherlock and John take the case, but find that their own drama is overshadowing the potential infiltration of Mi6.Picks up after an alternate version of series 4, which I hope to eventually relay in flashbacks (Spoiler Alert: giving Saw/Shutter Island a wide berth).





	1. Genius in Love

The black sedan rolls quietly down High Street, reflecting street lights and illuminating the fog that follows the rain on a cold October evening. It stops in front of an unassuming section of a wall in the old college - by a dark wooden door. A tall man unfolds himself and his umbrella from the back seat and knocks twice. The porter looks surprised - “Good evening, Mr. Holmes. Will you be dining in college tonight, Sir?”  
“No, Gregory - I’ve come to collect a guest, Dr. Scott?”  
“I will ring her room right away, Sir.”  
“No need, Gregory - here I am, Mr. Holmes.” A tall woman emerges from the darkness, wearing an a midnight blue evening gown and wrap. Her jet black, short hair frames a pale face, and wide eyes - so dark, they could be blue or black or any colour in between. Mycroft smiles - the smile even reaches his eyes - shakes hands and offers his arm to conduct her into the waiting car.  
“Thank you - cobblestones and medieval pavers are murder in high heels.” Alessandre Scott - the world renowned American mathematician - smiles teasingly up at Mycroft with perfect cupid bow lips, painted crimson.

The car pulls away from the kerb, and starts its journey back to London.

“Her Majesty’s Foreign Office would like to extend its official welcome, Professor. I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of planning a quick dinner before the concert? Just the two of us - nothing formal?”  
Alessandre’s glances comprehensively at Mycroft’s tuxedo and her evening gown, gloves and cape and widens her eyes slightly.  
“My apologies, Dr. Scott - I meant nothing diplomatically formal.”  
“Then perhaps for the remainder of the evening, you could call me Alessandre?” She fixes Mycroft with a look that is both veiled and analytical. Blue eyes then, Mycroft decides - exceptionally dark blue - for a moment, they recall the steady gaze of his brother’s companion, Dr. John Watson.  
“Then, please call me Mycroft.”  
“Mycroft.” Breaking eye contact, Alessandre settles back into her seat, watching the English countryside pass in the undulating fog.

Mycroft takes Alessandre up the back staircase to the private dining room at the Wolseley.  
“We won’t be disturbed here.”  
“Mr Holmes….Mycroft. I appreciate the consideration, but all I need is a rare steak and good wine to maintain reasonable focus at dinner. We maths professors leave the secret keeping and clandestine discussions to Physics and Quantum Chemists - they enjoy their mad scientist reputations as much as Hadron supercolliders. So - this is unnecessary - unless you are planning a seduction?” Alessandre laughs, not unkindly.  
Mycroft laughs as well, but the well oiled gears of his mind turn, unbidden, to the white expanse of Alessandra’s throat and her dancing marine blue eyes. 

_Unexpected._

As dinner progresses - Mycroft finds himself considering a seduction, a train of thought that alarms him to no end. His mission was to broker an arranged marriage between Crown and Country and the American professor, not to be taken in his own trap. Still, they discuss everything from advanced mathematics to Sibelius's symphony that they are about to attend. 

Not for one moment is Mycroft ever bored. 

Alessandra’s mind is agile - spinning connections between broad topics and drawing conclusions with relentless logic. Mycroft talks more than he has in months; he finally has empathy for Sherlock’s marked tendency to show off when she applauds his logic or says, with her polished slight Brahmin accent, ‘Yes, brilliant.” By the time coffee is offered (she takes a double espresso, no desert), Mycroft almost volunteers such confidential tidbits as his mother's identity. 

_Sentiment, he muses._

At the concert hall, Alessandre is on Mycroft’s arm as they file into the box. He's reluctant to let her go once he settles her in the chair. Her posture is perfect - straight backed and attentive. As the house lights come down, Mycroft blushes as his eyes trace the line of her neck downwards. Her arms rest lightly on her chair. Magnificent marine blue eyes watch the soloist with scientific attention - and Mycroft envies violinist Ivan Goldman over the attention of her gaze.  
The Sibelius is his undoing. As the romantic theme swells and the orchestra chases the lush violin line, Mycroft’s hand crosses the distance between them, sliding first over her wrist at a pulse point then grasping her hand. Alessandre never looks away from the orchestra but doesn't remove his hand.  
As the final, frantic bars of the movement play, Mycroft lifts Alessandre’s fingers to his lips. He kisses each of her fingers in turn, breathing in her scent - not one he knows - but captivating. Her hand remains relaxed in his, but her eyes never leave the orchestra until the final mad runs of the soloist - an explosion of virtuosity - that Mycroft cannot hear over his hammering pulse when Alessandre's peerless eyes lock with his own.  
The applause of the crowd surprises them both - Alessandre stands, gathering her clutch and leaves the box with the confidence of a woman who knows a man will follow her, unquestioning. 

She slips through the Royal Festival Hall with surprising assurance, checking only once to be sure that Mycroft is there. Turning down a dark hallway, nodding to suited security guard who recognize her, she enters a private lounge and Mycroft follows. 

Mycroft can hear the sounds of Marquez’s ‘Danzon #2’ and wonders - if Sherlock were here - would he gather Alessandre in his arms for a tango? While emotional entanglements leave his brother confused - Sherlock has always been able to fake the beginning of a seduction with aplomb...or perhaps his brother just likes to dance. Alessandre pours them both two fingers of scotch from a decanter and presents a glass to Mycroft. 

“This is Ivan’s guest lounge, he is a family friend - I hope you don't mind?”  
“No, I don't mind at all. We can resume talking now that we are in private.” Mycroft takes a careful breath “ ......You were...not at all what I expected.”  
“Yes, I would have to say the same, Mycroft Holmes. Not what I expected at all.”  
Mycroft takes a sip of his drink and regards Alessandre over the rim of his glass. Before he can speak, she continues -her voice pitched low and fast paced.  
“Timing is unfortunate. Mycroft, there should have been two guards at these doors - there was only one. The Americans should have put a tail on your car the moment we left All Souls, but I could not detect one. There was a face - busboy, I think - that I later saw in an adjoining box in the theatre. I'm afraid I need to ask for help-but I’m not entirely convinced that the MI6 hasn't been compromised.”  
Mycroft’s face cannot maintain its usual impassive mask.  
“And, Mycroft, before you interrupt~of course I know you aren't really Foreign Office... your Mum is a mathematical genius. Your genius, however, is far more catholic - but of all possible agents they thought you might at least understand me and my worth - quite rightly as it turns out - you do.” The rapid fire conclusions wind down and Alessandre looks away. “Also, not once all evening did you leave me bored. That is...something.”  
“Do you think that last was part of the British Government’s plan for you?”  
Alessandre smiles quizzically, then responds,”Well, Mycroft? Aren't you the British Government? Seems like you ought to know the plan - ought to know this changes everything. Because I know that I'm not secure, not here nor in any of your safe houses. And we must work quickly.”  
“My home, then.”  
“Mycroft.” Alessandre takes a breath, “That is an entirely different unsafe scenario.”  
Mycroft nods, even though the lump in his throats makes it difficult.  
“I have another plan that might keep you safe until we can secure you. It will mean staying on in London for a bit, are you willing?”  
“Yes”, Alessandre looks nervous.  
Mycroft sends several texts.

_Brother Mine, will you and Dr. Watson be very long on your case this evening? - M_

_I can’t see how that is any business of yours, Mycroft. It must be so galling that you can’t add psychics to Mi6 routine surveillance. - SH_

_To Anthea -  
Sweep Baker Street immediately, everything that isn’t ours comes out. You have at least 15 minutes, probably more. Leave no stone unturned, he surely did not. - M_

“Very well. Then I will arrange our car and we can set off.”


	2. 221B Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I have a case, of great international importance, for you. - M_  
>  Piss off. - SH  
> Not this time, brother mine. Arriving at Baker Street now - do put on some clothes - I'm bringing a guest. -M

_I have a case, of great international importance, for you. -_ M

 _Piss off._ \- SH

 _Not this time, brother mine. Arriving at Baker Street now - do put on some clothes - I'm bringing a guest_. -M

 

“JOHN!” Sherlock is pacing the living room, wrapped only in a sheet.

John Watson emerges from his bedroom looking dazed. “Sherlock, it's past midnight, I thought you were sleeping - what are you on about?”

“Mycroft! Mycroft is ‘arriving momentarily’ in our flat, guest in tow, with a case for us. He implied I should wear clothes.” Sherlock finishes, petulantly.

“Which part of that sentence bothers you the most?” John asks with a small smile as he draws his dressing gown around himself. He turns towards the door to the flat, where a beautiful woman in a dark blue gown is standing next to a grave, unsmiling Mycroft Holmes.

John takes a breath before regaining his composure, “Mycroft. To what do we owe the entirely undesired honor of your presence at this hour?”

“Apologies, Dr. Watson”

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid this is my fault.”

“Sherlock, Dr. Scott will need a temporary place to stay while I arrange for more secure permanent quarters. As she will need to be in London, I thought the best place for her was Baker Street.”

“Mycroft - this is insufferable. I don't keep clients in the linens cupboard. Where will she even sleep?”

“Sherlock, really…”

 

“I _am_ standing right here, gentlemen.”

 

“She can take Dr. Watson’s room - you two could share your bed if you intend to sleep at all, which I consider unlikely, since we are also bringing you a case.”

-“But you haven't told me _why….”-_ Sherlock continues.

 _-”_ Of course, why would I need a bed in my own home?”-John speaks over Sherlock.

Alessandre has exhausted her patience. _“Enough, Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson!  (Pause) Mycroft._ Your case is infiltration of the Mi6-possibly with me as an objective. Considering the delay….”

Mycroft's eyebrows raise and Alessandre bites off her sentence and redirects.

“Mr. Holmes….Sherlock. I'd happily tell you my story but a game of deduction might help settle you down enough to kindly FOCUS.”

Sherlock huffs and snaps to attention.

“American, late 30’s, professor - but you have been here for some time.  Not London, so Cambridge? No, Oxford. Something scientific or technical. The Mi6 doesn't concern itself with Romance language professors, nor does it faff about after anything less than the exceptional, the extraordinary. So-aaaahhhh - yes! Oxford, then.  A fellow at the most exceptional college of all - All Souls. You don't have the squint of a biologist, the smell of a chemist or apparently the ego of a physicist so….” Sherlock glances between Alessandre and Mycroft “mathematics?” Sherlock smiles knowingly at his brother who maintains an impassive mein. “SO! Am I hiding your pet code breaker? Are the Americans annoyed at The British Government’s more obvious overtures?”

Alessandre smiles at Mycroft, “Hm. He is pretty good.”

Mycroft's patience is thin and breaking at Sherlock’s fishing expedition with the British Government comment. Sherlock feigns innocence. John glances between them and sighs.

 

“Ok. So we are keeping her, you...for how long?” John makes an effort to be polite.

“Only until I resolve the leak, with your assistance, of course - and can find suitable accommodation for Professor Scott.”

“Not long, then.” Sherlock sneers.

“Sherlock.,” John’s voice carries a note of warning, “Professor - I take it you didn't bring pajamas to the opera?” John continues.

“Symphony.” Sherlock corrects John.

“SHERlock. Not relevant. Professor?”

But Mycroft replies, “Anthea will be here with something suitable shortly.”

Alessandre turns to Mycroft, laying a hand on his chest. “Thank you, Mycroft.  For everything.”

“Of course, Alessandre.”

John is wide-eyed - first name basis? Even the Prime Minister calls him Mr. Holmes.

 

The four stare at each other, only Alessandre is entirely self-possessed. There is a knock at the door. Mycroft draws his gun.

John’s eyes widen further, “yeah, right - Anthea? I'll go check then,”

Anthea is carrying a garment bag in one hand her mobile in the other.

John, ultimately fed up with the silent argument between the Holmes brothers, takes the bag off Anthea and turns to Alessandre.

“Professor, if you would come with me, I'll get you sorted.”

“Thank you, Dr. Watson. Goodnight, Mr. Holmes. Mycroft.”

 

John and Alessandre head upstairs, leaving Mycroft glaring at Sherlock.

 

“I just changed the sheets…”’

“It’s all fine, Dr. Watson.”

“Please, call me John”

“John.”

“So - not a code breaker?”

“Hmmm?”

“Sherlock’s deductions. That's the bit he got wrong - you aren't a code breaker. Then why is the British Government so _interested_ in you?”

“Not a code breaker - but codes are math, so it's not beyond my powers. I'm not sure about anybody's interest, moreover-I doubt it is relevant.”

“But someone is after you - if not for what you do….is it somehow for who you are?  What then?”, in the silence that ensues, John retrenches, “So - how long have you known Mycroft?”

“Nine hours, 30 minutes, give or take - he picked me up around 4 pm”

John is surprised. He would've sworn that Mycroft has a reason for interest outside of the normal operations of government, but ‘love at first sight’ and Mycroft can barely reside within the same mind, let alone the same thought. Still, John does not fail to notice Alessadre’s stunning eyes.

“Dr. Watson,...John...It's been a long day, I would love nothing more than to fall into that bed. _If_ I can impose just one more time - can you help me get out of this gown?” Alessandre pulls yoga pants and a plain, dark blue t shirt out of the bag.

John steps up behind her and slides the zipper down - exposing her marble white shoulders to the small of her back. John swallows as his fingers graze her skin accidentally. He realizes this is more than a bit not good, bids her goodnight and hastily retreats to the living room where a different set of alabaster shoulders await him.

 

“John. Is our _guest_ settled?” Sherlock gestures to a cup of tea on the coffee table.

“Quite. I didn’t expect you would agree to keep her, but she seems...uh..nice. How did you get rid of Mycroft so quickly?”

“Dropped the sheet to make us tea.” Sherlock grins and John smiles back.

“Are you planning on sleeping tonight? I can take the sofa for one evening.”

“Don’t be ridiculous - I am uninterested in the catalog of profanity and whinging we would be forced to endure if you actually spent the night on the sofa. Sleep in my bed, John.”

John stares into his mug, as he contemplates Sherlock’s offer. Sharing a bed does make logical sense, the sofa is anything but comfortable. John’s heart has other plans - and he worries that those plans will become too obvious if he spends the night in such close proximity to his flatmate. Damn Mycroft. Instead, he says, “OK, then. Good. Great….I guess - good night, then.  Ah….are you coming?”

“Soon, John. Goodnight.”


	3. Perchance to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John settle in for the first night of bedsharing in 221B, but the romance they discuss is most definitely not their own....

Sherlock sits on the couch, wondering if sleep will come. Mycroft needs to bring materials over - he won’t arrive until morning - so tonight there is technically no case to keep Sherlock awake. Still, sleeping in his bed with John Watson mere inches away is dangerously tempting. 

_ Since his return from Eastern Europe, Sherlock has exerted the full strength of his powers to maintain equilibrium with John. He wanted John to be happy - even if that happiness didn’t include Sherlock. He tried to like Mary -  _ **_did_ ** _ like Mary for letting him stay in John’s life, until she didn’t. Until she shot Sherlock through the heart, literally and figuratively. Everything that followed - killing Magnussen, exile to Eastern Europe on a suicide mission which lasted less than 30 minutes, his return to Baker Street, Mary’s abrupt departure from their lives…the hurricane of the improbable swirled around them until Mary was gone. In gratitude to the Fates, all Sherlock asked for was to have John here at Baker Street, solving cases - the two of them against the world.  Sherlock forced himself to be content with that, to never ask for more - so afraid was he to disrupt this delicate equilibrium, this hard-won peace. _

Still, Sherlock didn’t feel entirely secure sleeping on the sofa when there was a stranger in the flat, and he desperately needed sleep before tackling the case Mycroft brought, so tonight he will sleep with John Watson - only sleep - and if it breaks his heart a little, what’s a little more heartbreak if it keeps John by his side?

 

Sherlock stares at the hallway leading to his room with such focus that it seems like Professor Scott materialized out of thin air next to him.

“Oh - I didn’t mean to startle you - I was just looking for the bathroom?”

“Mmm? Oh..” Sherlock gestures vaguely towards the hallway. 

“Thanks. I apologise again for imposing.”

“You aren’t an imposition, my brother is - though I doubt I’ll hear him apologise for it.” Sherlock muses on the couch until Dr. Scott returns with her makeup removed. He studies her face, “You are much prettier without it.”   


“What?”

“I prefer your face without makeup.”   


“Oh. I don’t much care. I don’t wear it for you - not for anyone.”

Sherlock barks with laughter. The sound draws John to the sitting room. 

Alessandre smiles as John enters the room, “Hello again, John. I…”

Sherlock interrupts with a deduction, “Not a codebreaker.”

Alessandre turns to Sherlock, “You’re slow. John got there before he even unzipped my evening gown.”

Sherlock scowls. John ducks to hide a grin.

“So then...what? What about you is so exceptional that All Souls came calling, and  _ my dear brother  _ was speechless?” 

John laughs quietly.

“Absolute Zeroing Theory.”

“The lower limit of thermodynamic temperature? Seems a bit...esoteric for Mycroft.”

“That is absolute zero. Not thermodynamics, mathematics. Absolute Zeroing is my theorem.You know the Law of Conservation of Mass - matter cannot be created or destroyed? Well, that’s only physical matter. My theorem deals with digital matter. If you create and then delete a record in a database, you are actually overwriting the record - but there is a...digital fingerprint left behind by these methods, no matter how strong the encryption. Absolute Zeroing Theory posits that you can obliterate the entire record, make it as though it never existed, without physically destroying the hard drive...and since every form of computerized security has an origin point - lines of code that can be removed or altered - it’s like a digitized Golden Key. You could go into...I don’t know...maybe your bank’s internal database and erase your account entirely, and no one could detect the change, because they wouldn’t be able to tell there was something there to begin with.”

“That is...not without some interesting uses.”   
“Well, I don't much care about the uses, I am a theoretician. I leave the practical application to artists like your brother.  Or at least, I gather he would like to...toy with the practical applications of my little Golden Key. And, after tonight - I surmise he’s not alone in his...curiousity.” She shrugs, “Well - I’m for bed.  Goodnight, gentlemen.” Alessandre departs after a comprehensive glance at John that ought to make him blush. John’s tongue darts out across his lip. Sherlock does not miss the look nor the reaction.

“Shall we go to bed, then, John?”

John swallows, “Yeah.”

 

**In Sherlock’s Bedroom**

“You’ll take the left side?”, Sherlock emerges from the bath in cotton pajama bottoms and a shapeless grey t-shirt. John’s spine loosens a little - Sherlock is often oblivious in the face of social convention. John had been steeling himself to politely request that Sherlock wear at least pants if they were to share a bed.

“If you don’t mind.”   
“I prefer it.”

“It’s just - I brought my Browning down - left is my gun arm. I’ll keep it in your bedside table tonight if that is OK?” John reaches into the drawer without thinking and encounters a bottle of rather expensive lube. He blushes to the roots of his hair, “Or I can leave it on top, yeah? I’ll keep the safety on.”

“Hmm, yes. What’s the matter?”

John fights off the start of an erection by thinking about Margaret Thatcher, “Absolutely nothing at all. Just..getting situated.”

“When I was questioning Dr. Scott, what made you laugh?”

John grins…”Nothing. It’s just….well, you made a bit of an assumption that Mycroft wanted the good professor for the same reasons as All Souls.”

“I assume that is why the British Government would allow a coveted post to All Souls go to a foreigner. There are only two a year, John.”, Sherlock turns back the coverlet and slides between the sheets.

“Yeah, Sherlock. I know...it’s just...she called him  _ Mycroft. _ ”

“So?”

“So…,” John slips into his side of the bed, facing Sherlock, “So - he called  _ her ‘ _ Alessandre’.” John imitates Mycroft’s slightly breathless delivery.

“Well, Americans are overly familiar...OH!  No! You don’t actually think?”

“Did you see how he was looking at her? Romeo, yes. Ice Man, most decidedly not.” John giggles.

Sherlock giggles too, leaning towards John unconsciously. He catches himself and clears his throat, “I rather thought you might’ve fancied her.” Sherlock looks up at John from under his lashes.

“Oh, well - if more Maths professors looked like her, their lectures would probably be better attended, but no...it’s more an aesthetic appreciation of her..um..cheekbones. (John catches himself staring at his flatmate across the pillow) Her EYES....over...those cheekbones.” John flips onto his back, breaking their connection. 

“She is….pretty isn’t really the right word. But still, Mycroft could be drowning in beauty and barely note of it. No, if he was….looking, I don’t doubt what you say...he must be shamming. I haven’t seen Mycroft evince anything more than a tactical interest in another human being for...ever, really.”

“It's that simple? The Holmes’ siblings aren't capable of …” John trails off.

“Lust?”

“Love, Sherlock, or just feeling something other than curiosity or contempt for another human being.”

“We are talking about Mycroft. I have never seen him willingly indulge in sentiment. His control is absolute.” Sherlock runs his hands through his curls in frustration.

“It’s not the same for you?”, John doesn’t want to ask, simply has to ask.

“I’ve never been equal to Mycroft’s control, much as I have tried to remember that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.”

“He’s wrong, your brother. Sentiment doesn't mean weakness and falling in love isn’t something you can control. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is fall in love with somebody.”

Sherlock frowns. “If falling in love is uncontrollable, then how can loving be brave?”

John sighs, looking intently at the ceiling, “Perhaps loving isn’t brave, but owning your love - regardless of the cost? No matter whether your love is returned? Brave doesn’t begin to cover it. Some of the bravest men I know are cowards in love.” John is suddenly tired. He turns on his side, away from Sherlock and closes his eyes. "Goodnight."

Sherlock leans up to look at John, then turns out the light. "Sleep well, John."

If sleep seemed impossible earlier, it is doubly so now. John’s face is puckered in a small frown, his breath changes in sleep. Sherlock moves closer, almost touching John’s back. He breaths in the scent of shampoo, aftershave and  _ John.  _ It calms Sherlock, and - despite his fears - he sleeps.


	4. Awakening Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is awakening to possibility...but only just.  
> (Hopefully the last chapter of exposition before we can pick up the pace...a lot.)

John curls back into warmth. His cheek rubs against the smooth cotton of the pillowcase. He can’t remember having a better night’s sleep. A warm arm tightens around his belly, pulling him closer, legs intertwine with his own ...and John feels the ghost of stubble on the face that burrows into his hair and neck. 

_ Hang on. _

John opens his eyes and finds himself surrounded by consulting detective. It’s almost comedic - if John were asked what sort of bedmate Sherlock would be - ‘amorous octopus’ would not be his first guess. John tries to extricate himself, only to have Sherlock wrap tighter. 

“Sherlock, wake up?”. Sherlock growls in his sleep and nuzzles in. “Sherlock, I’m not your bleeding teddy bear. SHERlock!”

Sherlock wakes with a start and deduces two things rather quickly: he is completely wrapped around his flatmate and such proximity is causing an extreme physiological response, which said flatmate can’t help but notice, as it is currently straining against the cleft in his arse.

Sherlock pushes John away, aroused...terrified. John falls off the bed. 

“Christ! Bloody satanic octopus alarm clock...what are you playing at?”

“MycroftTheFilesComingShower” and with that string of words, Sherlock steps over John, flying into the en suite. 

 

John sits, bemused on the floor. 

 

“John! Sherlock! Are you decent? I got a text from Mycroft - he's coming. What do you have in the way of breakfast food? Could I at least cook for you to say thanks...is that a human hand in the crisper drawer?”

John comes out in his dressing gown, “Ah, sounds likely...how did you sleep?”

“Hm..like a baby who was acutely aware that some international cartel had infiltrated the Mi6 in an effort to capture, possibly kill her.”

“That well?”

“Mm-such lovely sheets.”

“Yeah, those are Sherlock's...as are the hands in the crisper drawer.  Fortunately - they  _ are  _ in the crisper drawer - meaning the food in the refrigerator is edible, if you are dead set on cooking us breakfast, that is?”, John smiles and flirts almost on autopilot. He is still trying to delete the memory of his pleasure at waking in Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock emerges from the bathroom moments later, dressed immaculately in a suit so dark it seems to draw light into its very fabric. John cannot look away. 

“I don’t know my way around an English fry-up, but if one of you makes coffee - I know enough to make a more-than-passable omelet.” and with that, Alessandre is cracking eggs and sliding butter into a pan. John starts the coffee, while Sherlock glares at the kitchen as though cooking personally offends him. 

“I don’t see how you have time to be making omelets when you were nearly snatched from Jubilee Hall - and right out from under Mycroft’s abnormally large nose.”

“Cooking helps me think.”

“Seems like a waste of good eggs.”

“Just so. So what isn’t a waste of time? Theorizing about who might want access to the brain behind my Work? That shouldn’t take long to list. Everyone. Everyone, every government, every criminal, every terrorist...everyone. Don’t worry - you don’t have to show your work to get credit.”

Sherlock leans back, fingers tented under his jaw - his voice drips with condescension, “Our problem isn’t that I don’t know who would want access to the theorem, the problem is which one, specifically, decided to act last night.”

John asks the Professor, “Did anyone know of your plans?”

“No, that’s wrong.”

“Sherlock, I’m fairly certain that wasn’t a yes/no question, and I’m definitely sure it wasn’t addressed to you.”

“Irrelevant - anyone who would want access to Dr. Scott’s theorem would have resources to tap her mobile, and therefore could have uncovered her dinner plans. That doesn’t narrow the field at all. The right question is: who would want to steal you out from under Mycroft’s nose? Surely it’s easier to slip past the porter at All Souls - all you need to navigate Oxford is an air of pretension and a scarf in school colours, it’s hardly secure.”

“He went to Cambridge, didn't he?”

John nods, accepting a plate in exchange for hot coffee. 

“If they were going to take you - better to do it at Oxford, where the academics wouldn’t realise she was missing for weeks. No. This targeted you, but the ‘point’ of the attack would have been to prove something to Mycroft.  Don’t you agree, Brother Dear?”

 

Mycroft enters the kitchen, holding a file in his hands, which Alessandre removes - replacing it with a spinach and cheese omelet on a plate, “Hungry?”

“Starving. I trust you slept well, as well as  you could given the circumstances?”

“Yes - John was the perfect host.”

“And Sherlock?”

“...Managed not to set fire to the flat, and kept the dismembered hands in the appropriately labeled crisper drawer - so his chart gets a sticker, too.”

Three men look at her like she just switched to Greek. Alessandre sighs. 

“This omelet is amazing.” John pours coffee for everyone. “Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“I grew up two houses down from Julia Child...but my dads were amazing cooks too.”

John chokes on his coffee,“Dads...plural?”

“Yes, plural. Do people in this day and age living in a city like London really have a problem with that?”

“No. No….I..it’s all good. Really.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “Aren’t you a little old to be raised in a male co-parenting household?”.

“Did sleeping with you disrupt his rest, John? Or is he always this disarmingly tactful?”

“No. He slept. And this is what tactful looks like on him.”

“Yes, well - while we are all endlessly fascinated by Sherlock’s mother wit,...I was rather hoping that I could persuade you to figure out where the leak in the Mi6 is so we can restore Dr. Scott to her fellowship at Oxford.”

“Yes, Mycroft. Take her, leave the files.”

“Take her - Sherlock, she’s not a parcel without a forwarding address….”

“Take her and go - I’ll get your leak sorted, you know I will. If you are still concerned, don’t take her to your office - go see a movie...visit a museum. Show her London, just leave me be - I can’t work with half of London traipsing through our flat, clients who don't leave, John distracted from The Work with coffee,...omelets!” Sherlock waves.

“Omelets which are delicious,...Sherlock, just take a bite.” John gestures with his fork. 

“John, try the aeroplane, that typically worked for Mummy.” Mycroft snips. 

“Mycroft, I will go mad if I'm trapped here all day. So, show me London - after all, if The British Government intends to woo me, I’m neither a cheap nor easy date.”

“Of course,” Mycroft stumbles, “you're not a date at all. Only... I mean you are an honored guest of the commonwealth...and we should keep you amused while we clear up our little problem. Anthea, will you take..”

“Mycroft, not Anthea - you.”

“Of course, Anthea please clear my diary for today and make the necessary arrangements for security - will The British Museum suit?”

“Admirably. I'll just get dressed while you finish.”


	5. Art Appreciation

Dr. Scott comes down from John’s room, dressed in severely tailored dark jeans, a fitted long-sleeved, v-necked t-shirt, French blue, a scarf and a blazer. John and Mycroft both give her a comprehensive look, Sherlock looks bored.

Mycroft and Alessandre slide into the back of Mycroft’s town car. Mycroft speaks first.  
“I thought you might enjoy the Japanese gallery, so I took the liberty of closing it to visitors so we could tour.”  
“Mmm, excellent. Are you an Asian art enthusiast? I’ve heard they have an extensive Shunga collection?”  
“I assure you..”Mycroft looks panicked.  
“Relax, Mycroft. Just be yourself today - let’s not worry so much about what’s allowed.”

They tour the gallery - Mycroft stands closer to her than he should. He is more interested than he ought to be...he cares more than he should. Alessandre is flirting with him, but Mycroft cannot tell if she means to flirt, or if it’s completely impersonal.

And Mycroft can always tell, that is what makes him Mycroft Holmes.

He proposes lunch in the (closed to the public) Members Room. Alessandre slips away for a moment while Mycroft tries to get his emotions under control. He doesn’t have this luxury. Attraction is all well and good, but Mycroft Holmes is definitely not breathless and never out of control. He wonders if Alessandre feels anything at all for him. Sometimes the way she looks at him - like she is waiting for him to declare himself as he did at the Symphony, like a cat watching a mousehole. Mycroft is never the focus of attention, and Alessandre’s attention is blinding, sharp and addictive.

Meanwhile, Alessandre sends a text - _British Museum, Elgin Marbles - noon._

Mycroft awaits the return of his lunch partner. Alessandre drops Mycroft’s security team by cutting through the ladies room, she maneuvers the secured back hallways of the British Museum, emerging in the Elgin Marble hall - she walks through the gallery, a guard steps forward, “The Members Room is still closed, Madam. Perhaps Montague on the Gardens?” He hands something off under a gallery map.   
“Thank you.”  
Alessandre walks out onto Montague Street, after quickly tucking a gun into the back of her jeans under her jacket and gets into a waiting dark blue Jaguar. The driver hands her a mobile phone as she slides in, “Hello darling, you will never guess where I'm calling from!”

( ** _At 221B Baker Street_** )  
“Sherlock - what is in the files Mycroft brought over?”  
“A lot of useless information...we are looking for a leak-any of his agents could be compromised-while the real puzzle eludes us: who would attempt to target Mycroft?”   
“You are sure that is the reason? It's not just coincidence that she was with him? Or linked to her arrival in London versus Oxford?”  
“I can't see the pattern yet, and I never guess. But there is….something.”  
“You have to hand it to Dr. Scott. Brilliant mathematician, gorgeous, she's apparently seduced your brother, and through all of the trauma of last night - she didn't seem thrown by any of it. Remarkably adaptable woman!”  
Sherlock, slowly, “That's true, isn't it? Not phased in the slightest. Almost…”, Sherlock picks up his mobile to call Mycroft but it is already ringing.   
“How goes your romancing of the good doctor, Brother dear?”  
“Sherlock, Dr. Scott is missing. She went to the restroom, security footage cuts out for fifteen minutes, CCTV, everything. A staff door onto Montague Street was found propped.”  
“Another leak?”  
“No. Today was handled by my personal staff. I don't think a tip off came from them.”  
“Who do you think would take her?”  
“I have some ideas, but I could be wrong.”  
“Balance of probability, brother.”  
“Not over the phone - have you or John left Baker Street at all today?”  
“No.”  
“Then don't, not yet - I'll come.” Mycroft rings off.   
“John - you should note the time. That is something I never thought I'd hear in our lifetime.”  
“What's that?”  
“Mycroft doesn't know what to do.”

( _ **In Dr. Scott's car**_ )

“Oxford’s bored you already?”  
“No. But the Holmes brothers’ constant squabbling is starting to do so.”, Alessandre stretches like a cat.   
“I didn’t think you were planning on taking them on yourself.”  
“Well - That’s part of the problem, isn’t it? ( _She pauses)_  You are in London. Where?”  
“Dead men need to stay off the grid, we can’t all be enjoying private dining at the Wolseley.”  
“Where?”  
“The Landmark”  
“I’ll be there in 15 to pick you up. I’ve missed you, Jimmy.”

Jim Moriarty hears the line cut off. He looks in the mirror, smoothing his bespoke Vivienne Westwood suit. Alessandre’s here - and that can only mean one thing. It’s finally show time. 


	6. Bit o' Rough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alessandre reunites with Jim Moriarty - and plans the opening gambit in a new game with the Holmes Siblings.

Alessandre’s car pulled up to the service entrance of The Landmark where Jim Moriarty was waiting. CCTV cameras were taken out of the equation temporarily. The back windows of the car were tinted. 

Jim slides across the leather seats to within kissing distance but doesn’t move in, waiting for Alessandre.

“Jim, you know how I’ve missed you. But. Not. Yet.” - and Jim subsides. “I thought we had Mycroft in hand here.  I thought YOU had him in hand, but that’s not quite true, is it? That video…”

“Taken care of it. AGRA is dead.”

“I hate to say I told you so, but…”

“Mary was a reasonable risk at the time. I thought she’d remove John Watson from the equation...clearing the path to Sherlock.”   
“She got in too deep. Jealousy is such a pointless emotion. I’m glad she’s gone, she’d break...and I have no use for breakable things.”

 

“So - do tell. What brings you to Mycroft Holmes’ town?”

“There’s nothing to tell. I got the fellowship at All Souls...I knew Holmes had to be behind it, but it’s so prestigious that it would blow my cover to turn it down. So…”, Alessandre smiles a slow and wicked smile, “More importantly - it’s time for us to finish our little game with the Holmes brothers. And I know you’ve been...eager.” Alessandre’s eyes trace down Jim’s body, lingering on the hardness pressing against his bespoke trousers. Her hand follows her eyes.

“Alessandre….ah! You are the best of both worlds: brutal as a man, beautiful in the way of women...devious…” Her hand slips the fastener on Jim’s suit and steals into his pants; Jim rocks against her long fingers. “Oh!...BRILLIANT the way only you can be. All that perverse creativity...all for me.”Jim sing-songs.

Alessandre shoves against Jim’s chest, holding him back.

“And you get Sherlock Holmes.”   
“Just so.”

“As long as  _ you  _ don’t forget...you are  _ all mine… _ ”

Jim Moriarty leans back into his seat, “I don’t know, Alessandre - it’s been such a long time. Remind me.”

“If I were a man, Jimmy - I’d have you all the ways you want... and several you don’t.”

“Do it.”

And Jim’s mouth is on Alessandre’s. He can play-act if he needs to seduce a woman into complicity. There is no need to pretend with Alessandre under him, over him, long and angular - aggressive, ‘You kiss like a man - where did you learn to...fuck!...kiss like a man?” Jim pulls Alessandre into his lap, grinding up against the notch in her jeans. She grabs his hair, forcing him to expose his neck as she bites. “ _Ale_...You drive me crazy.”

“You were crazy long before I got you, Jim. I unlock it for you.” Alessandre turns to the driver, “Take us to Ropemaker.”   
“Jim, we have five hours...four, actually”, she twists her fingers in his hair, her lips against his ear, whispers, “....and you are going to  _ love _ it, because you are going to make it so, so rough for me. Bruise me, fight me...maybe even tie me down. Then shoot me up with heroin and dump me on the sidewalk in front of 221B Baker Street. Since I slipped Mycroft’s leash, I’ll need to make an entrance.” 

“Oh! I will absolutely  _ ruin  _ you.”   
“I’m counting on it - just careful of the face - I have to make a seductive hostage.”


	7. 221B Baker Street - Early Evening

Mycroft Holmes has been pacing the sitting room in John and Sherlock’s flat for the past hour. Anthea set up a mini command centre on the desk, and has been scowling at her mobile as her fingers fly. 

“Mycroft, no leads on the vehicles in the area of the museum prior to losing CCTV coverage. But - one of the security guards who clocked into work today is now reported missing. Looking for footage on him now.”

“Thank you, Anthea.”

“Mycroft, I’ve been through the files - I don’t think the leak was inside the Mi6. All security details were in place at the appropriate time, the Americans - who were short-handed outside Ivan Goldman’s lounge - had an agent down with food poisoning. They allowed single man coverage for the duration of the show so that they could cover his dressing room too. The only reason the Americans had eyes on Goldman at all was because of the connection to Dr. Scott." 

Sherlock scrubs his hands through his curls in frustration, "Colin hacked the ticket holder records, there are season holders on all of the boxes surrounding you, no recorded after-market sales - but that doesn’t really mean anything. We don’t have the professor’s phone, so we can’t try to see if it’s been hacked, but she’s a university professor - her email and calendar are not going to be guarded like the Crown Jewels, so the balance of probability would leave us there. Her calendar was hacked - simple enough - and the appointment mentioned Mycroft Holmes.  
Now, can we please stop asking these pointless questions, and tackle the more delightfully interesting one: who wanted to take her, but mock you?”

“Again, Sherlock - the list is seemingly endless.”

“No. No! Not everyone can understand or practically apply the theorem of Dr. Alessandre Scott.  She said herself that she isn’t interested in how you could use it, only that it was mathematically possible. This rules out most terrorist cells and a great deal of the criminal underbelly. They have guns, not brains.”

“So tell me, have you narrowed it down? The Russians? North Korea? Some immense, international shadow organisation?  Do you actually have a soundly reasoned hypothesis, or are you just recirculating air?”

Anthea glances up and minutely raises her eyebrows. Mycroft, the personification of calm-and-collected in all things, is clearly rattled.

 

( **_Cargo Area of a Box Truck_ ** )

Alessandre can feel her heartbeat in her wrists.  _ Bound, in front of me - too tight.  _ Fragments of words, short sentences crash around her brain even as her body rolls from one end of the cargo hold to another.  _ He hit my face - but not my nose or mouth - good. Somebody loves you, to quote Irene. _

Getting high was a calculated risk - it meant Jim could hurt her  _ enough _ ..so that her injuries would not be suspicious. She also hypothesised that it would at least delay the inevitable questioning that would follow her reappearance. It was well done - she’s damaged but doesn’t need a hospital...and better still, it should rouse the protective instincts of Dr. Watson, and trigger the pointless jealousy of Mr. Holmes the Younger. _ Brilliant.  _

_ Heroin chic  _ she laughs to herself - you forget how warm, how beautiful it makes you feel; everything goes quiet. Will stay quiet and cocooned until the itching starts and the pain bleeds through again.  _ Still, worth it. _

Jim Moriarty certainly enjoyed himself. He got to relive a youth of misspent confidence games and grift - knowing just how hard to hit so the bruises are convincing, without doing any permanent damage. Jim’s hands, all over her body, his voice whispering “ _ Fight me...you know you want to. You will need some defensive injuries - look at the angle of your hands. _ ”

Pain is not something Alessandre strictly enjoys - but it can be...instructive. It teaches her how far her protege will go, and where he loses control. Even wrapped in a pure heroin high, Alessandre can still reason, still analyse and she concludes..... _ the first hour was better _ . 

Sex with Jim is good in the way playing dress up was good when she was a girl, when Alessandre and her friends believed that putting on a gown really changed them into princesses. With Jim bound and gagged in her open, low bed - he could be anyone...often he was, for her. Jim is an excellent actor when properly motivated. And if he kissed her brutally, if Jim imagined it was Sherlock Holmes straddling his lap, holding him down and using teeth and tongue to trace the outline of Jim’s veins,...well, it works for them.     
The box truck hits a pothole, and Alessandre bounces against the side. Then - they stop, and hands lift her, dropping her unceremoniously on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street, then drive away.


	8. Goodnight, Sweet Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Scott's return prompts Sherlock's jealousy to boil over, but John Watson is no one's whipping boy.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson yells from the bottom of the stairs and Sherlock takes off at a dead run towards her. He’s arrested in the stairwell by the sound of laughter in an ascending scale. “Ooooo. Is that where this is? The Home of Sherlock Holmes…” more giggling.

“Come on now, Dearie.  Up you get.” Mrs. Hudson fixes Sherlock with a singularly unamused look.  “Sherlock, really.  Friend of yours, then?” 

“Mycroft’s, actually”, Sherlock takes in Dr. Scott’s appearance - bruises on left side of the face, ligature marks on her neck, blood in the corner of her mouth and her temple, her shirt is ripped...there are track marks on her arm, fresh ones. 

“Am I Mycroft’s only junkie? How do you know he doesn’t collect them, like tea sets or pretentious wines? Mrs. Hudson, may I introduce world-famous mathematician and our current forced houseguest, Dr. Alessandre Scott.”

John and Mycroft trail behind Sherlock on the stairs. John moves to examine Alessandre; Mycroft to catch her in his arms as her eyes roll up into her head. 

“Mycroft, we need to get her to a hospital.”

“Oh yes, Brother Dear - and won't your minders love that.”

“Sherlock.”, John says warningly, then redirects his comments to Mycroft, “She’s drugged..high as a kite - that’s obvious, but it doesn’t explain all these bruises.”

Mycroft’s mouth is compressed into a thin line, “Sherlock is right.” he bites off, “I couldn’t secure her when she was practically handcuffed to my wrist - what am I going to do with her in a huge hospital? Dr. Watson - can you evaluate her here?”

“Yeah, OK.  Help me get her up the stairs? Dr. Scott?  Alessandre?  Come on, luv - listen to Mrs. Hudson - up you get.” John wraps her arm around his shoulders, and when she stumbles - he swings her up into his arms and carries her into his bedroom.

“Dr. Watson! Ohhhh.” there is a line between moaning in pain and moaning with pleasure - and Alessandre is riding that line as she curls into John Watson’s chest, fisting his shirt.

“Sherlock - get my bag. Mycroft - come on.” John lays Alessandre across his bed, her arm wraps around his neck and pulls him down to her, “Easy there, Dr. Scott. I am a physician - you have several injuries, and - with your permission - I would like to evaluate you further, is that OK?”

“You want permission to touch me?” Alessandre giggles flirtatiously, and reaches towards the placket on John’s shirt - but the motion causes her pain, “Ohh - My head...hurts. Who are you?”

“Dr. John Watson. You were our house guest last evening. Can you tell me what happened to you after going to the museum with Mycroft?”

“Don’t remember. Right. Holmes,...Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. John Watson - Sherlock’s partner - that is where I am?” Alessandre starts to cough and doubles over, “Might want to look...my ribs.” Sherlock places John’s medical bag on the end of the bed, and moves towards the doorway.

“Can I evaluate you? I can ask Mrs. Hudson to join us if it would make you more comfortable?”

“No - just...just you, can everyone else leave?”, Alessandre’s manner has no trace of flirtation about it now.

“Sure.” John glances up at Mycroft and Sherlock - “Of course.”

The Holmes brothers enter the sitting room, where Mrs. Hudson is bringing tea.

“This is ridiculous, Mycroft. We have to question her. She had track marks - did you see her bruises?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Given that she was clearly tortured today, I am rather inclined to give her absolutely ANYTHING she requests. She was MY responsibility!”

“Mycroft, her captors were kind enough to load her up with heroin; she shouldn’t be feeling much of what happened to her. Did she explain where she was? How she was taken?”

“She’s barely lucid, Sherlock. While I am quite eager to discover who did this to her, for reasons you will neither process nor understand, I will not subject her to your particular brand of thoughtless inquisition until she is at least somewhat recovered.”

Fifteen minutes later, John descends the stairs to the sitting room, “Anthea is with her, I’ll return shortly. Most of the bruising was superficial - she might have one broken rib - which is taped up for now. She wanted to see you, Mycroft - but she’s resting now.  There is no..evidence of any other type of assault, but Jesus. Who would do this to a professor - and then drop her like a returned parcel on our front steps?”.

Mycroft drifts up the stairs to John’s room.

“So, no permanent damage - just obvious injuries”, Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes.

“Sherlock, what is so bloody  _ obvious  _ about beating a near-defenceless woman who was tightly bound, possibly unconscious after being pistol-whipped?  What is wrong with you? Like in Cluedo - the victim DID NOT do it!” John is furious. He slams into the bathroom, and after a moment’s pause Sherlock storms in after John.

“Do you mind?” John leans over the sink, trying to catch his breath. Dr. Scott’s injuries were nothing requiring a stay in the hospital - John was intimately familiar with the type of beating designed to break the spirit, rather than the skin.

“Why are you behaving like this? I presume we saw the same injuries on her.”

“I may be wrong, but I think only one of us was up there - examining her and cleaning her up, Sherlock.”

“Oh, yes.  An aesthetic arrangement of bruises, no verification of possible broken bones, and a dose of heroin - which - to the best of my imperfect recollection - should have left her feeling right as rain for at least a few hours.”   
“Are you saying the man who beat her bloody was what? Being a gentleman?!?! Maybe she asked for it, yeah?”

Sherlock is completely nonplussed. “John?” he continues quietly, “Alessandre Scott has no known domestic partner - and no history of injuries consonant with an abuse scenario.”

“I wasn’t saying that she did, Sherlock.” John’s voice is suddenly tired, “Only - she was beaten by someone experienced - that beating would scare her, was  _ designed  _ to scare her into cooperating...and it sounded like you were blaming the victim.”

“If she is just the victim…”

“What reason would she have to damage herself in that way? What….RESOURCES would she have to do that - she couldn’t self-administer that beating! It’s...it doesn’t make sense, Sherlock.” John is removing his shirt, stained with Alessandre’s blood and lipstick. His hair is mussed.

“Oh - look at you. An attractive woman gives the slip to the finest security Queen and Country have to offer, turns up with some skillfully applied injuries and a drug-induced blackout - and you - you are ready to play knight-in-shining-armour as fast as you can sweep her into your arms. _Mycroft_ is so besotted with Dr. Scott that he cannot think...Brilliant - I couldn’t have done better myself. Bravissima.”, Sherlock swallows as he watches John disrobe to the waist, but he cannot stop himself from layering on insults and attacks.

“Jesus! Would it go so terribly amiss for you to have just a tiny bit of sympathy for her? She’s out of her head...was captured right under your brother’s nose, and treated brutally….and you haven’t offered a single reason for your suspicion. Not. One.”

“MYCROFT HOLMES cannot THINK! Do you know how many agencies, terrorists...all of them falling over themselves to get Mycroft off his game and she does it with a look, John?     
But you... Had you at omelets, did she? Attractive woman, shows a spark of interest in you and you’re just smitten, aren’t you? Incomparable eyes, I’ll give you that - and her look before bed last night? Would have thought you were a virgin behind those blushes, John. It could only be more perfect if she really  _ is  _ the bad guy...well, I mean….that’s  _ just  _ your cuppa tea, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off!” John’s anger flares again at Sherlock’s not-so-subtle gibe. He steps to Sherlock, toe-to-toe, and watches his flatmate’s eyes dilate, “Clever boy, aren’t you? You are  _ never  _ more transparent than when you are being vicious, Sherlock. You’re jealous!”

“Of what? My brother’s attention?  I assure you the less I have of it, the better for all concerned.”

John smiles without humor, “You’ve got me there. So it must be that you are jealous of  _ my  _ attention, mustn't it?”

“You are…”, Sherlock can’t think with shirtless John a hair's breadth away.

“I  _ am not  _ your whipping boy.” John growls.

“Never said you were mine...do you want to be hers?”, Sherlock counters flippantly, grasping John’s biceps to push him away, while spinning on his heel.

“No.”

And that is all.  A sentence of one word, whilst John Watson yanks Sherlock’s arm back so he crashes against him. Sherlock is caught. John’s gaze is smoky in a way Sherlock has never seen. They freeze for a fraction of a millisecond - time spiraling away from them when their eyes lock. 

He shouldn’t..knows he shouldn’t but his body won’t obey. John’s hands are in his hair, pulling him down. Sherlock leans into John, presses against him. His dressing gown is gone, John rips open his shirt, hands fumble against the catch of his trousers. Sherlock’s lips trace the scar lines over John’s shoulder. He slips the button on his jeans, then pushes John roughly towards the bedroom.

They don’t speak a word - hold tight against the hall door. Trousers fall to the floor, John’s zip grinds against the bare skin of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock plunges his long fingers into John’s pants, gripping his arse, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

John locks arms around Sherlock, physically lifts him from the wall and throws him on the bed. Sherlock kneels to haul John’s jeans and pants down, then swallows his cock. John’s left hand laces into his curls, his right touches Sherlock under the jaw, where he can feel as Sherlock attempts to take him deep. 

This isn’t how it should happen, but for a moment, John cannot care. Sherlock is on his knees and those galaxy eyes trained on his own. If John doesn’t change course now, everything will crash closed before they even kiss. He pulls Sherlock back - spreads him out on the mattress. Crawls up his body, tongue tracing muscle. When he is on top of Sherlock, his thrusting hips pinning the taller man under him, Sherlock closes his eyes. John supports his weight on one arm, angling Sherlock’s face with the other. He brings their lips and tongues and teeth together in a violent kiss. Too much want, too much time, too much unspoken - the language of the body is eloquent, but has limits. Sherlock gasping beneath him, John holding on ferociously - so that he can never be taken away again.

“John!”, Sherlock is pleading, his curls tossing back and forth on the pillow. 

“Look at me.” Sherlock opens his eyes, reaches up to pull John into another kiss. His hand trails down,  _ Pectoralis Major, Rectus Abdominis, Oblique, Transverse Abdominis, Inguinal Ligament _ . John’s hand meets Sherlock’s as they close over both cocks, stroking through precome and heat until Sherlock is crying out against John’s mouth. Feeling Sherlock coming against him tips John over the edge, flooding the space between them. They collapse together, panting into each other’s shoulders. 

John uses the dislodged top sheet for a perfunctory cleanup and tosses it to the side. Without words, he gathers Sherlock into his arms and wrapped together, they sleep.


	9. Dreams May Come

If Sherlock were honest with himself, he would admit that he has dreamed about waking in John's arms. In dreams, the night’s passion spins out over hours and they sleep soundly, safe in each other’s arms, for a long time. This waking moment comes with watery sunlight filtering through the curtains and the seductive smile of his bedmate promising sleepy morning sex. It's hopelessly romantic in a way he hardly can countenance - but that has not stopped him on 57 separate occasions...that he remembers. His dreams were not just sex, but love-filled. 

These dream rehearsals were poor preparation for the real moment. In reality, Sherlock slept for an hour after curling, sticky but sated, into the crook of John's arms. Sherlock jolts awake, insights and deductions flooding his mind.  In reality, Sherlock knows the taste of John's skin; he does not know if that knowledge changes anything between them. Last night should have been the watershed moment, the moment everything changed. But in the darkest hour of night, Sherlock wakes to find the memory of John's lips colliding with the spiraling certainty that the game is on, and Professor Scott is absolutely a player - and John, ( _ his John?) _ does not believe him. Wordlessly, he slips away to shower and dress, then into battle. 

 

Mycroft has been watching over Alessandre for hours. The play of emotions over her face, even in sleep, is more riveting than classic film. Earlier, when the heroin rush was still in her system, her mouth and hands were sensually grasping at the covers - if it weren't for the IV Dr Watson set up, she would be chasing the dragon by now. Instead, she tosses back and forth on the pillow - in pain but unconscious - and Mycroft experiences a most unaccustomed sensation of helplessness coupled with an overwhelming desire to ease her, gentle her. Slowly, he runs his fingers through her hair as she moans. 

Mycroft will indulge his feelings until tomorrow, when she wakes. 

 

John wakes to the sound of the shower running. He takes a deep breath, wondering if he dreamed the past few hours but the scent of Sherlock and sex permeating the sheets would indicate no. 

_ How did it spiral out of control so quickly?  _

John was angry, speechlessly incandescently angry with Sherlock. He had accused the victim of a beating of being the perpetrator, he even disregarded John's medical opinion. It was really unprecedented in the history of their partnership. When John invaded Sherlock’s personal space, his thought had been to intimidate him, to cow the unrepentant detective with a little dose of Capt. Watson. John thought Sherlock was being unreasonable. What he never suspected was that Sherlock was jealous. John knew, of course he knew Sherlock would be jealous of John’s time, even jealous of John's attention...but to see Sherlock coming undone because of sexual jealousy? This was not supposed to be a color in Sherlock Holmes emotional palette. Every time they have been close to something like this, Sherlock has pulled away precipitously. 

When John first stepped into Sherlock's orbit, he felt like he might have punched him, but then - the softly exhaled gasp - it was like being caught in a trap. Pointless to say that John has been in love with Sherlock since he learned the man was ‘married to his work’ at Angelo’s. John had learned to live with  _ wanting,  _ sure that Sherlock would never feel the same way about him. What had happen last night must have been a mistake. Did John take advantage of Sherlock’s inexperience? Did Sherlock want John as John wanted Sherlock - or did he regret getting involved and for that reason, he had already fled the bedroom?

John sighed.  _ Only way to the other side is through it.  _ Just like in his army days. It's  been less than two hours since he left his patient - but he ought to check on her IV. And if he happened to find a certain consulting detective, John hoped he would be able to discern a bit of the man’s heart - because words dried up and blew away when John tried to contemplate how to start “The Talk” with Sherlock. As a British gentleman of a certain age, John thought it actually could be physically impossible to do.  _ Something has to give  _ \- and with that thought, John stood and pulled clothes on to check on Dr. Scott.

 


	10. Game Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock pretend nothing happened, Mycroft confronts his brother about sentiment, while confessing his own. An unexpected package will disrupt all plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love for the comments, it keeps me going when these characters refuse to speak.

By the time John is in the kitchen, Sherlock is seated at his microscope, drinking tea. He doesn’t acknowledge John’s presence, except by sidelong glances when he is sure John is looking away.

“Well, thank god that won’t be awkward.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asks, feigning disinterest. He does not look up.

John isn’t sure how to take this, so he settles back into his earlier plan, with a small modification. “I’m going to check on Dr. Scott’s IV, I have her on a taper - we will need to bring her up soon. When she does come ‘round, can you just… If you aren’t sure, give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“When have you known me to theorize without data?”

“Right. Have you told your brother your...theory?”

“No.”

“I’ll send him down if he’s awake. Please be….”, John trails off; Sherlock raises an eyebrow and for the first time since the bedroom, looks at John, “...kind. Be kind to him.”

“Unpleasant truths don’t improve with varnish, Doctor. He only just met her.”

“That means nothing at all.” John breaks the gaze angrily and walks quickly to the stairs.

Sherlock retreats to his samples. The heroin in Dr. Scott’s blood was very pure, not street drugs. John is….angry again. Sherlock doesn’t know why - he thinks something is amiss with Dr. Scott’s story - but it looks like he and John can’t agree to disagree. 

John mounts the stairs to his bedroom stomping irritably, realizing halfway up that he was being childish. Deep breath, then he resumes his trip, at a considerably lower volume. 

Alessandre is asleep but starting to be restless. John is surprised to see Mycroft at bedside, stroking the hair out of her face and holding her hand. John feels like an intruder, and quickly looks away. Mycroft straightens, he takes in small changes that John is sure are imperceptible to normal, non-Holmeses. Something in the archness of Mycroft’s smile makes John believe that his recent activities with Holmes the Younger were not missed. John almost wishes that he could tell Mycroft to deduce what John cannot - where do they go from here?

“I need to change out that bag, Mycroft. She will be waking soon.”

“What must we expect of her mental status, Dr. Watson?”

“Based on the drugs she was given, there may be gaps which will resolve over the course of a few days if they resolve at all. She was in quite a lot of pain, so there is the possibility of concomitant trauma, even PTSD. We will know more when she comes up - and I will try to bring her out slowly, to minimize the impact.”

“Physically - when can she be moved?”

“Soon, today even - she’s in pain - but unless she looks different on subsequent evaluation - there is no internal bleeding, nor major physical trauma. They roughed her up, probably scared her, but they weren’t going for any permanent damage.”, John pauses, “Sherlock was..uh...asking after you. Perhaps you could go down while I change things here?”

“Thank you, Dr. Watson. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” Mycroft departs with a last lingering look at Alessandre.

John goes to work.

“You’ve had an eventful evening, Brother Mine.” Mycroft heads to the kitchen without seeming to even glance at his brother, as Sherlock sits glaring into the eyepiece of his microscope.

“Who is Alessandre Scott, really?”

“You know who Dr. Scott is, Sherlock.”

“No - I know what you’ve told me, and what the world knows. But I would never say that I know who she is, Mycroft. She is  _ not  _ who she seems to be. Balance of probability, Brother - you know more about who she is than you have let on, but you still have let sentiment cloud your judgement.” Sherlock pauses before sliding into deductions.

“I hardly find that you are in a position to sit in judgement on that score, Sherlock. If I am not mistaken, Jim Moriarty would need to change your codename after this evening, since The Virgin is no longer strictly true.”

“It’s never been true during our acquaintance. Surely you knew that something more than cocaine came between me and Victor at Cambridge? Still - hardly the sort of intelligence I would expect Moriarty to obtain or desire - unimportant as it is.”

“And yet.” Mycroft waits for a response, and when none is forthcoming, he continues.”I find myself curious, I had always supposed that if you and Dr. Watson ever overcame your….concerns about engaging in a romantic relationship, you would be...happier about it. You are not happy, Brother Dear - nor, it would seem, is John. Why is that?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Is it? I thought we were discussing sentimental blind spots, after all?” a pause, then “I didn’t expect it, Sherlock….sentiment. Alessandre Scott being...distracting in the way she is...Any of it.    
If there is something I am missing, tell me. I can’t keep a weather eye on things from my minor position in the British Government if I am blinded, and I very much fear that I am missing things. The consequences are potentially disastrous.”

Sherlock pushes back from the table, he pours Mycroft a cup of tea. “And yet. Look at us both. Not much in it, is there? This caring lark?”

“I suspect we are out of practice.”

Mycroft sips his tea and watches his brother. Something went wrong, neither Sherlock or John seem content - although every probability pointed to this being the right development for them...and the case was nowhere near resolved. He regrets bringing his problem to his brother’s doorstep. It  _ was  _ sentiment, and he didn’t trust anyone else to help, only family. The irony of that decision is not lost on him, either. 

Mycroft adopts a thinking posture - Anthea went home, she won’t be back until morning. The rest of the team is at work in headquarters; Mycroft should join them. He is about to pour another cup of tea when there is a buzzing on his mobile.

_ M - I shall stay alive _

Sherlock’s mobile next.

_ SH -I shall stay alive? _

Sherlock enters the lounge, looking at his brother - phone in hand. Text messages start to ping from one mobile to the other, with lines of poetry.

_ M - I shall stay alive/ because above all things/ you wanted me indomitable _

_ SH - seguiré vivo, _

_ SH - you wanted me indomitable _

_ M - above all things/ you wanted me indomitable _

_ SH - and, my love, because you know that I am not only a man _

_ SH - y, amor, porque tú sabes que soy no sólo un hombre/ sino todos los hombres. _

_ M - y, amor, porque tú sabes que soy no sólo un hombre _

_ SH - I shall stay alive/ because above all things/ you wanted me  _

_ M - indomitable _

Anthea returns and draws Mycroft into the kitchen, alone.

“This was driven over, it’s been x-rayed.” she hands Mycroft a manila envelope with a DVD inside. Wordlessly, Mycroft puts the DVD into a secure computer. The label is “Stayin’ Alive”.

_ SH - I shall stay alive/ because above all things/ you wanted me - xxx _

_ SH - I shall stay alive/ because above all things/ you wanted me - xxx _

_ SH - you wanted me indomitable, and, my love, because you know that I am not only a man - JM xxx _

“MYCROFT!” Sherlock whirls into the kitchen and watches, horrified, as Jim Moriarty smiles back at him. 

**“Well you didn’t think I’d really gone, did you?”**


	11. Miss Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you ready? This is where it gets….interesting. Oh - and will you tell your brother? Ah...Sherlock - Sherlock, I won’t even ask ‘did you miss me?’ - because I already know, I’ve always known - you miss me, no one else ever came close, did they? I’ll save you from the painfully ordinary,...my dear.” (New Edits to This Chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needed to re-work the story a bit, especially the ending - so publishing this chapter again.

“MYCROFT!” Sherlock whirls into the kitchen and watches, horrified, as Jim Moriarty smiles back at him. 

**“Well you didn’t think I’d really gone, did you?”**

Mycroft’s frown deepens.

“ **I did miss this...our little game.”**

“No no NO! No - he’s dead. The envelope is just like Mary’s. Mycroft, he’s dead!”, Sherlock is pleading. 

**“Are you ready?  This is where it gets….** **_interesting._ ** **Oh - and will you tell your brother? Ah...Sherlock - Sherlock, I won’t even ask ‘did you miss me?’ - because I already know, I’ve always known - you miss me, no one else ever came close, did they? I’ll save you from the painfully ordinary,...my dear.”**

Sherlock screams in anger and frustration. The sound brings John at a run from upstairs, “What’s wrong? What happened?” then he sees Jim Moriarty on the screen. “Bloody hell!”

“So it would seem, Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock is tugging at the roots of his hair, “But it wasn’t him - last time - it wasn’t him, it was Mary. Is this just another game?” He is coming unhinged. John has never seen Sherlock so upset when he was sober.

“If it is a game, the players have changed. This”, Mycroft gestures to include the DVD, “did not originate with the operative we knew as Mary Morstan.   
The envelope is similar, but not the same. The label is handwritten, there is some smearing of the ink, but clearly in a man’s hand - Moriarty’s hand, I’ve seen it. The label was written with a brand of gel pen that is new to the market - only out for a few months - so not a posthumous game, not a trick. James Moriarty is back - perhaps already in London - and is most decidedly….” 

“...not  _ actually  _ dead?” Sherlock speaks slowly and pops the final D.

“Not dead...and not currently our problem.” Mycroft glances at Anthea, who closes the computer and prepares to take the package away.

“What do you mean ‘Moriarty is not our problem’? This isn’t a change-of-address card from the depths of hell to the land of the living!  He wants the game to begin again and he’s come back for…”, Sherlock trails off.  

“Sherlock - right now we have a guest who could trigger an international incident when she comes out of her drug-induced coma. If Moriarty wants to ‘play’, then he will have to wait his turn like a good boy, no matter how little inclined he is to do so. We have bigger issues at present.”

“The last time Jim Moriarty wanted Sherlock to come out and play, he didn’t wait about - he started strapping SemTex vests on innocent people! How could you believe he will just sit there like a bleeding chess match, waiting for your response?”, John’s face wears a tight smile.

“...and you among them, John.” Mycroft gives John an appraising look. “Jim Moriarty was impatient for Sherlock, because he could be. I'm afraid you know - no one rushes  _ me _ at chess.”

“Dr. Scott should be waking soon - would you mind keeping an eye until she does?  Text me if there is any change.”

“I will, John.” Mycroft and John share a look that Sherlock cannot interpret but does not fail to notice as Mycroft leaves. Sherlock says nothing during this exchange and stares into the middle distance. 

“So….’this is a real turn up, isn't it Sherlock?’ (No response). Just when you thought things might get boring. ”

Sherlock tries for impassive, missing it by a country mile, “I don't know what you…” 

“Oh yes you do. Oh yes you DO! This is what you want, isn't it? Someone so delightfully interesting?”

“John.” Sherlock cannot look directly at John. Terror swirls behind his eyes and his hands shake. This is the end; Moriarty’s return will ruin them.

John cuts him off in an impassioned whisper, “No! The last time, the LAST time Moriarty crooked his finger, you were haring off after him like a SHOT. Ironic, since that was almost the outcome of that little interaction - you, shot. Then, he manipulated you into….you’ve got to admit, it's brilliant. You BOTH faked suicides up there on the roof of Bart's.”

“It won't happen ag…”

“Swear to God?!?”

“YES! Last time, John, I thought I could beat Moriarty. But in the end, on that rooftop, I just couldn’t...THINK...beyond keeping you safe; you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.....what happened to me...it didn’t matter.”, Sherlock is tearing at his hair.

“Christ, Sherlock. Two years. Two years during which every newspaper in England cheerfully eviscerated the man I knew, telling lies. Two years, wondering what I could have said to stop you - feeling every centimeter of your fall was my fault for not knowing.”, John pauses, approaching Sherlock slowly until they stand almost close enough to touch, “Two years without so much as one word. The last time nearly killed me too. But I can’t help but see it.  I see -  in your face, you are ...what?…..you are LONGING for him.  At long bloody last, something to hold your attention - a worthy opponent, a re-match.”

“NO! John, I...I realized that I cannot… _ (Tears begin to carve their way down Sherlock’s face) …. _ I promise: I will never leave you behind again. It’s always the two of us against the world and I was a fool not to realise before.   
But never forget - I tried to convince you that I was a fake; you never believed me. I abandoned you and the life we made for two years, thinking I could eliminate the threat from Moriarty - I didn’t succeed.  So - I’m still selfish, really. I vow not to leave you behind, even though this puts you in unacceptable danger and I  _ know  _ I can’t protect you.  **I** am the reason there is a target on your back. Again. ”

John turns away, but Sherlock follows - touching John’s arm, “I can’t do it, not now. Not alone.”

John approaches Sherlock, almost afraid to touch him. So many emotions are at war within him - but in the end, fear and love battle for supremacy over John’s countenance. “Is this real? Jim Moriarty...hell, The Game doesn’t exert any pull over you anymore? Or just - is it fear talking?”

“This isn’t a Game anymore. Not for me.

“And yet.”

“And yet - I - We may still get pulled through Hell while he forces us to play.”

John slides his hand over Sherlock’s bicep and forces Sherlock to meet his eyes. John’s gaze is fatalistically calm - a good soldier. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their moment is interrupted by the arrival of Mycroft, with a stumbling Alessandre Scott held up in his arms. “She wouldn’t stay in bed, I..”

“Dr. Scott - you really shouldn’t..”

“YOU really...don’t tell me what to do. I’ve had enough of this.” her nails scrape against her arms…”Itchy... _ Heroin _ . Jesus - that’s what they gave me? Heroin?” Alessandre’s eyes skitter around the room. “Like a fucking Mac truck…” 

“Dr. Scott, do you want to give a statement to...to...the police or..” John looks at Mycroft for a prompt. Sherlock feels as though his strings were cut when John’s arm moves away. He retreats to his chair, studying Dr. Scott.

“No. I hardly think this is an affair for the New Scotland Yard. Alessandre,..” Mycroft is cut off by Dr. Scott before he can continue. 

“I want to go back to Oxford. This is quite beyond anything I bargained for when I accepted the fellowship at All Souls - in the worst ways humanly possible. I want to go.”

“Alessandre - it isn’t safe for you - Oxford or London, for that matter.”

“Plan?”

“Yes, well…”

“DO YOU HAVE A PLAN? It isn’t a complicated question - a binary: yes or no, really? Mycroft Holmes, do you have plan or shall we go with mine?”

“Yes. A plan: a weekend in the country, you might say - somewhere it is doubtful that anyone will think to look: Sussex.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“My - our - parents’ home is there. Ah - we could enact a bit of a ‘meet the parents’ ruse.”

“Why, Mycroft - why ruse? Aren’t your parents there?”

“Of course they are - or at least, they will be in a few days. Everyone will go for security, but also to maintain the fiction of a ‘family’ weekend, of course...perhaps Dr. Watson wouldn’t mind posing as your partner, Sherlock?  I’ve arranged for transportation within the hour, if you feel well enough to travel?”

“With such  _ interesting  _ incentive - it would be churlish to refuse.” and for a moment, Alessandre’s eyes betray an avidity which she immediately masters, but not before Sherlock sees. “But - first Oxford - at least for a day. No excuses - I was safe in college before, so I will be again - for a day, to tie up some loose ends. You all can find rooms at the Mercure…”

“Well - then it’s decided - let’s pack, John?”


	12. An Evening in College - London to Oxford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, what have you told your parents about the ‘girl you’re bringing home’?”  
> “Only that we are coming...that we haven’t been together for long, and that you are impossibly dear to me already.”  
> “Why Mycroft, you utter romantic.”

Four black vehicles pull up in front of Speedy’s - tinted windows, bulletproof glass - two agents per vehicle. Anthea enters 221B with two drivers, and emerges with luggage moments later. The first and last SUV’s are heavily, yet subtly weaponized. 

“We will divide into two vehicles for the trip,  I will take Dr. Scott in the car with the driver. John and Sherlock can follow in the Range Rover - and I would suggest using a driver, since neither of you slept. Anthea, with me, please - in front. 

If we need to separate, each vehicle should stay with a security detail until we are well out of the city - but we shouldn’t drive too closely in formation, as we are trying to maintain the fiction that...I am taking Dr. Scott to meet my parents. Everyone who is licensed to carry a weapon should do so.  Anthea?” 

Anthea opens a large case containing multiple handguns and ammunition; she hands them out to John, Mycroft, and begrudgingly to Sherlock, along with secure mobile phones.

Weapons stored, the group picks up their bags and head into the waiting vehicles - Dr. Scott is assisted down the stairs by Mycroft. John closes another weapons case and slings his computer bag over his shoulder. Sherlock shrugs into his coat - they do not speak to each other, but exchange a single look before walking out the door.

 

“Do we both sit in back?” John adjusts his coat before opening the door.

“Might be easier - Mycroft has asked us to maintain a...a..fiction in front of my parents, so we need to settle on those details.”

“Is that really necessary?” They climb into the Range Rover and the driver begins to roll up a privacy partition.

“Mr. Holmes - the partition is also bulletproof glass - you can see me, but I cannot see you if we are ambushed. Mr. Holmes Senior suggested that we keep it in place for the drive as an added security measure, sir.”

“Yes…”

“Langby, sir.”

“Thank you, Langby - whatever Mycroft suggests will be..adequate.”

“I will knock on the partition if we need to communicate, sir. I hope we have a pleasant drive to Oxford - it should be approximately 90 minutes at this time.”, Langby rolls up the rest of the security partition and the small fleet of vehicles depart Baker Street.

 

* * *

**_(Mycroft’s Car)_ **

“So, what have you told your parents about the ‘girl you’re bringing home’?”

“Only that we are coming...that we haven’t been together for long, and that you are impossibly dear to me already.”

“Why Mycroft, you utter romantic.”

“Alessandre...I won’t deny that from our first meeting, you improbably turned my head. I’m not accustomed to feeling this way or noticing these things.”

“What things, Mycroft?” Alessandre settled back in her seat, extending her long legs across to Mycroft’s lap.

“Every thing. Your insights and observations about the world around you, your quickness - judge, evaluate, discard, sift through a thousand hypotheses before narrowing in on just the right one, the way your voice can slide from laughter to issuing demands within a sentence - both with equal conviction...the variability of blue in your eyes… I am...captivated.”

“That is….quite a declaration.”

“You didn’t expect it?”   
“I didn’t expect to hear you say it, no. Mycroft - in a world of goldfish, I so rarely find another shark. What ever am I to do with you? What do you want to do with me?”

“I should think that would be evident.” Mycroft leans in across the seat, sliding his hands up Alessandre’s calves.

“How am I to know - perhaps you just want to sell our meet-the-parents ruse? Indulging in the play-acting of….legwork.” she sits forward and draws her stocking foot up the inseam of Mycroft’s trousers. “Did the stage lose it’s brightest light when you chose civil service, Mycroft Holmes?”

Mycroft stops her foot before it traces the inseam to its source, “Hardly. After all, diplomacy is positively Shakespearean.”

“So then - tell me a story?” Alessandre leans away again, looking up at Mycroft from under her lashes.

“What tale is mine to tell?”

Dr. Scott takes a deep breath, “I dunno. Perhaps you could start with who we are running from? Who is ‘Jim Moriarty’? (silence) Your brother’s voice carries, Mycroft. I remember a news item dating back several years now. Are we really running scared from a dead man? Did Moriarty do this,” Alessandre gestures to her body, “to me? Why?”

“So many questions.”

“We have the time - I daresay you don’t want to spend the next few hours working on our cover, so...off you go. You have your hypothesis - dazzle me.”

* * *

**_(Sherlock - Look at Us Both)_ **

It was easier to pretend he never wanted, Sherlock reflected, much easier than dealing with the complexities of desire. Years ago, when The Woman entered their lives, Sherlock was tested by love. Sherlock and John arrived at Irene’s atelier to procure the phone. What should have been a simple enough task was detonated as the CIA man said, “Mr. Archer….On the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson”. Moriarty at the Pool, over again - only this time, John would not be lost because of a madman’s caprice, but because Sherlock failed to solve the puzzle in time. Time and again, John was in danger because of him - hardly anyone’s idea of a lover’s gift - and yet…

Irene was a fascination; her phone was a clever puzzle to be solved. It was a brilliant technique, Sherlock can now concede - with the benefit of time’s passage.  First - the moaning text tone, a constant reminder that - for months - primed John’s near boundless jealousy. Jealousy that Sherlock was too distracted to see at the time.  After she faked her death - the phone lock code puzzle kept Irene percolating constantly in Sherlock’s thoughts. How it must have looked to John…

At Battersea Power Station, Sherlock had followed John when Irene’s car came for him. If something happened, it would be Sherlock’s fault - he knew that car was never Mycroft’s. Their meeting lasted - maybe ten minutes - all the time in the world to fuel an ocean of confusion over what Sherlock ought to do next. Sherlock, who always observed so minutely, never realised how John saw him. John saw Sherlock writing sad music and pining, but he mistook the object. And then….Irene said, “Look at us both.” John never denied - he acknowledged it, perhaps for the first time - although only The Woman said it. Sherlock could catalogue the evidence of John’s love for years, yet never deduce that John loved Sherlock. But even though John was boiling over with jealousy, he still tried to ‘give’ Sherlock Irene, because he believed it to be what Sherlock wanted. Hmmmmm.  

There is a thread that wants pulling. John wants to give Sherlock anything he desires ( _ outside of the drugs, Sherlock reminds himself _ ) - even if those things are not good for him, even if those things run directly contrary to what John wants, needs. Perhaps that is all there was to the night before - Sherlock wanted John, and John couldn’t say no? But in the cold light of day - much like when Irene and John overheard Sherlock’s text tone - better to pretend you never wanted at all, and Sherlock fled.


	13. - John's Poolside Musing -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John POV, thinking of Sherlock and Moriarty.

_Alessandre beaten then tossed on our doorstep like yesterday’s news, Mycroft mobilized the entire bloody Mi5 to take his erstwhile girlfriend to ‘meet-the-parents’, but - in the final analysis - the man standing in the proverbial eye of the hurricane, of course, is Sherlock._ _Everything is about Sherlock - from the very beginning_ , John mused.   
He leans back against the headrest and looks across to Sherlock, who appears to be focusing the full power of his attention on his phone. John sighs quietly - he thought he had inured himself to the constant ache of desire for his flatmate, but - much like his shoulder - small strains, the rub of overuse, even a change in the weather, and the old pain flares up again.   
John wanted Sherlock from their first dinner at Angelo’s, but Sherlock said “married to his work”, and Captain Watson stood down. He spent the next several months tagging along on cases, trying to get his bearings in civilian London, and systematically ignoring any flicker of interest in Sherlock Holmes. Lust is well and good when it is reciprocal - and best ignored when it is not. He sought out girlfriends, and focused on being a friend to his often infuriating but always interesting flatmate. John was so focused on sifting out any thread of desire, that love slipped in, unnoticed.  
The first time John realised was at the Pool. Moriarty strapped John into his vest personally. Jim was such an innocent looking man, but he made John’s skin crawl. When he approached Sherlock, John did not stop to analyse his reaction - he wrapped his arms around Jim’s neck, ready to die to keep Sherlock safe. Later - Moriarty had gone, Sherlock thanked John for risking his life and John attempted to deflect from the sentiment that he feared would never be returned. He made a joke about Sherlock ripping his clothes off in a darkened pool. But, Moriarty was still listening, and he wasn’t pleased. That exchange was all it took - an infinitesimally small hint of John’s feelings for Sherlock and the potential that Sherlock might have feelings for John - and before John could stand, the sniper sights lit up their hearts.  
 _Once again - he and Sherlock are on the precipice of becoming something greater, and - once again - enter James Moriarty. Only Jesus had a more impeccably timed resurrection...I suppose it stands to reason that the antichrist would, as well._


	14. Confidences of the Journey's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John discuss the elephant in the room....or the Range Rover Sentinel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, please!?! I need some motivation to come back to the page, in a life that is - otherwise - a madhouse. Cheers!

 

**_(Sherlock’s and John’s Range Rover)_ **

“Mr. Holmes - received notification from control - we are taking a small diversion before arrival in Oxford, out of an abundance of caution. You and your partner can get a bit more sleep - it will be another 90 minutes, Sir.”

“Thank you, Langby.”

Sherlock and John have a console between them in the back seat - a console and the emotional distance of 1000 miles. John stares out the window without seeing, while Sherlock types furiously on his mobile. Only Sherlock has never been capable of maintaining a silence that he did not impose; he breaks their deadlock through a direct attack, “My Partner….Does it bother you that people think we’re a couple?”

John does not want to be drawn in, “Bother how?”

“It used to bother you in every way, it seemed”, Sherlock’s frustration starts to bleed through, “Anyone made a comment, or assumed we would only need one room...it triggered a veritable chorus of ‘I’m not gay’ and ‘We’re not a couple’”

“OK - yes, it bothered me that people would assume, but most of all - it bothered me because the whole world thought such an assumption was beyond obvious - yet, it wasn’t true.”

“And now?”, Sherlock tries to catch John’s eye, but John keeps his gaze leveled at the horizon.

“Hmmm?”

“John, don’t make me repeat myself.” 

John takes a breath, “We are about to pretend, for the sake of your brother and his I-don’t-know-what, that we are in a relationship...in FRONT OF YOUR PARENTS. As if that weren’t...difficult...enough, last night - through some temporary lapse of sanity, I...we…” John turns to look at Sherlock and loses his train of thought. Sherlock looks devastated, and he is not trying to hide it. 

“Sherlock?”

“That’s all it was, then? A lapse in judgement, no -  _ sanity  _ \- a mistake we made….”

“Isn’t that what you have been trying to tell me all night? That you regret what we did earlier - what I  _ forced  _ you to do. That is the very definition of ‘mistake’.”

Sherlock scrubs a hand through his curls, a quintessential frustration tell, “You know me better than that, John. When have I  _ ever  _ done anything I did not want to do?”.

“Sherlock.”, John holds out his hands, as though to stop Sherlock’s approach, “I’m not talking about...for Christ’s sake….having  _ urges _ ! This isn’t about  _ wanting. _ Yes, OK, you wanted it in that moment, same as me. But it isn’t that easy by the cold light of day, is it?  Oh, don’t act offended - not even an hour passed before you fled  _ your own bloody bedroom  _ because you were upset by what we did. I don’t want your regret to mean I lose my best friend. Maybe once we could have had something different between us. Christ knows how much I wanted something more - but then, you...were gone, and we missed our chance”.

“You don’t believe that”, Sherlock is stunned.

“I was your flatmate, your blogger, even your friend - but I was never more than that to you.”

“But - you never said..never indicated that we  _ could  _ be anything other than friends, John” Sherlock is pleading.

“You are the most observant man in England; am I to believe that you never noticed me pining after you practically since the day we met?”

“I didn’t know. I mean - that first night at Angelo’s, perhaps I saw a flicker of...something. But I was afraid - and I told you I was married to my work.”   
“I remember. And for the record, I  _ was  _ flirting with you - you were,...God...So young, so handsome, so brilliant and so overwhelmingly….arrogant”, John smiles at the memory, “..but, you did say ‘married to my work’ - and perhaps it was better that way. We would have hurt each other.”

“We did hurt each other...we do.”

“But we are still friends.”

“John, I have had few friends in my lifetime, but even I understand that what happened last night was past the limits of friendship. We took a turn that alters our trajectory...why can’t we stay the course?”

“HOW can we? Am I to believe - after 7 years - that I could matter to you, more than The Work? Have you forgotten that I know you - maybe better than anyone? Look at us, Sherlock, look at the past 12 hours and tell me honestly  - would a romantic entanglement with me would make you happy? To me, it seems like every shred of evidence lying between this moment and last night’s orgasm says just the opposite.”

“I AM IN AGONY, JOHN! I always observe, always understand  - but you….you are a locked room murder without a single, discernible clue. You are...perplexing...your motivations, desires...your...”

“My fears? Simple, really - the last time we came anywhere near to this kind of thing, you  _ jumped _ ”, John’s voice cracks, “I know it wasn’t what you wanted - but still, you did it.”.

 

Sherlock forces himself to meet John’s eyes, to acknowledge the pain reflected there.

 

“What is more - you did it because of James  _ fucking  _ Moriarty - who we are currently fleeing in an armoured Range Rover, with half the Mi5 covering our trails and setting up diversions.”

“Yes, well - the timing could be better.”

“Agreed”, John’s laughter is quiet and controlled. A shadow crosses his face, and he turns to Sherlock, taking his hands, “You are my best friend. We will make it through to the other side of this, together and in one piece.”

 

For a moment Sherlock is not sure whether John means they will survive their relationship (romantic entanglement?) or Moriarty, but considers it to be the latter based on context. In his mind, he is preparing to subside, to relinquish his claim on the hope of something  _ more  _ with John that the night before kindled. But something deep within him will not give in, and the sentiment careens into focus as he tries to put his feelings for John aside. Sherlock’s thoughts wander,  _ I thought leaving you then would be the hardest thing I would ever live through...until today, sitting here in this car, listening to you try to justify leaving me. Mary shooting me was a mercy in comparison. I am not happy with our status quo. Even though everything I’ve said and done since you came home again has been in the service of maintaining the status quo for as long as possible - every day dreading that it could happen again. You meet a woman, fall in love and leave me and I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it, John!  _

What Sherlock says, is, “No”.

“No?” John is confused.

“No, we did not miss our one mystic chance for something more - because ‘one mystic chance’ is a construct of Victorian romance novels, designed to frighten fainting heroines. No, I will not let anyone - including Jim Moriarty, or Mycroft and the whole Mi6 - dictate the timing and terms of our relationship. No, I am not giving up, I will never give up on you, nor you on me. We are pathologically co-dependent - always have been, and neither of us would change it. No, John. 

It’s you - _it’s always been you_...since the day that we met - for me, there was never anyone else. And if you think that I regret last night - it is only because you still are ignorant of the things I find nearly impossible to say. So perhaps I must state them outright - I...need you, you keep me right. I want you...so badly. And, although I made a point of avoiding the wily snares of sentiment - it can’t have escaped your notice that you are my exception in all things. I love you, John.” 

During the course of his monologue, Sherlock moved closer to John, ending on his knees in front of him. Sherlock presses John’s hands against his heart, as though his racing pulse could prove the truth of his words. John’s lips part in surprise and he can barely catch his breath as a tidal wave of emotion sweeps through him. Slowly, he slides his left hand over Sherlock’s neck, until he cups his jaw, brushing a thumb across his lips. John’s right traces Sherlock’s chest and ends curled around his bicep. 

One heartbeat more, and then they tumble together. Sherlock presses John back into the seat - the seat reclines enough to allow them to lay against each other. John pulls Sherlock into a kiss - this is where they always belonged - no matter what the danger might be, they are safe in each other’s arms. Lips soon part, tongues glide then intertwine. 

“Oh my god...Christ, Sherlock - I want to devour you!”

“John!”

Outside, the sky darkens, as night and storm roll in. John’s hands slide down, stroking the hardness pressed against his thigh. Sherlock gasps. John discovers the column of Sherlock’s neck with tongue, teeth, and pressure. He whispers, “I have loved you for such a long time, Sherlock. Such a long, long time. I...Oh!” Sherlock’s long fingers open John’s jeans and slip inside to pull out his cock. He locks eyes with John, encouraging him to watch as he sinks onto his knees, lips wet and parted. Sherlock takes as much of John’s length as he can manage, his tongue swirls around the tip, then back down. John tries to be quiet, but cannot help the whimper that escapes. Saliva lubricates Sherlock’s hand, which he moves in concert with his tongue to quickly bring John to the edge. 

John’s mind whites out, “Sherlock, I can’t hold back!” and Sherlock swallows around him as John thrusts past the soft palate. John spills deep in Sherlock’s throat with a breathy “Ah!” Sherlock is so lost in pleasure that he comes, pressed against John’s leg.  Within minutes, they notice the decrease in speed that means they have arrived in Oxford. Reluctantly, they pull apart. John redresses himself; Sherlock wipes ineffectually at the wetness in his silken pants. They look at each other for a moment, then burst into helpless giggles.

Langby knocks on the privacy panel, "Sir, Dr. Watson - we've arrived at the Mercure Hotel. I will bring your bags."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are loved and appreciated! xoxo


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